Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (73 page)

“Bring
him forward,” said Sir Simon, the old gentleman before mentioned. “What were
you doing there, my boy?”

“Why,
his arms are tied!” said one of the ladies.

“
Poor fellow!”
said another.

Hubert
at once began to explain that he had been waylaid on his journey home, robbed
of his horse, and mercilessly left in this condition by the thieves.

“Only
to think of it!” exclaimed Sir Simon.

“That’s
a likely story,” said one of the gentlemen-guests, incredulously.

“Doubtful,
hey?” asked Sir Simon.

“Perhaps
he’s a robber himself,” suggested a lady.

“There
is a curiously wild, wicked look about him, certainly, now that I examine him
closely,” said the old mother.

Hubert
blushed with shame; and, instead of continuing his story, and relating that
robbers were concealed in the house, he doggedly held his tongue, and half
resolved to let them find out their danger for themselves.

“Well,
untie him,” said Sir Simon. “Come, since it is Christmas Eve, we’ll treat him
well. Here, my lad; sit down in that empty seat at the bottom of the table, and
make as good a meal as you can. When you have had your fill we will listen to
more particulars of your story.”

The
feast then proceeded; and Hubert, now at liberty, was not at all sorry to join
in. The more they ate and drank the merrier did the company become; the wine
flowed freely, the logs flared up the chimney, the ladies laughed at the
gentlemen’s stories; in short, all went as noisily and as happily as a
Christmas gathering in old times possibly could do.

Hubert,
in spite of his hurt feelings at their doubts of his honesty, could not help
being warmed both in mind and in body by the good cheer, the scene, and the
example of hilarity set by his neighbors. At last he laughed as heartily at
their stories and repartees as the old Baronet, Sir Simon, himself. When the
meal was almost over one of the sons, who had drunk a little too much wine,
after the manner of men in that century, said to Hubert, “Well, my boy, how are
you? Can you take a pinch of snuff?” He held out one of the snuff-boxes which
were then becoming common among young and old throughout the country.

“Thank
you,” said Hubert, accepting a pinch.

“Tell
the ladies who you are, what you are made of, and what you can do,” the young
man continued, slapping Hubert upon the shoulder.

“Certainly,”
said our hero, drawing himself up, and thinking it best to put a bold face on
the matter. “I am a traveling magician.”

“Indeed!”

“What
shall we hear next?”

“Can
you call up spirits from the vasty deep, young wizard?”

“I can
conjure up a tempest in a cupboard,” Hubert replied.

“Ha-ha!”
said the old Baronet, pleasantly rubbing his hands. “We must see this
performance. Girls, don’t go away: here’s something to be seen.”

“Not
dangerous, I hope?” said the old lady.

Hubert
rose from the table. “Hand me your snuff-box, please,” he said to the young man
who had made free with him. “And now,” he continued, “without the least noise,
follow me. If any of you speak it will break the spell.”

They
promised obedience. He entered the corridor, and, taking off his shoes, went on
tiptoe to the closet door, the guests advancing in a silent group at a little
distance behind him. Hubert next placed a stool in front of the door, and, by
standing upon it, was tall enough to reach to the top. He then, just as
noiselessly, poured all the snuff from the box along the upper edge of the
door, and, with a few short puffs of breath, blew the snuff through the chink
into the interior of the closet. He held up his finger to the assembly, that
they might be silent.

“Dear
me, what’s that?” said the old lady, after a minute or two had elapsed.

A
suppressed sneeze had come from inside the closet.

Hubert
held up his finger again.

“How
very singular,” whispered Sir Simon. “This is most interesting.”

Hubert
took advantage of the moment to gently slide the bolt of the closet door into
its place. “More snuff,” he said, calmly.

“More
snuff,” said Sir Simon. Two or three gentlemen passed their boxes, and the
contents were blown in at the top of the closet. Another sneeze, not quite so
well suppressed as the first, was heard: then another, which seemed to say that
it would not be suppressed under any circumstances whatever. At length there
arose a perfect storm of sneezes.

“Excellent,
excellent for one so young!” said Sir Simon. “I am much interested in this
trick of throwing the voice—called, I believe, ventriloquism.”

“More
snuff,” said Hubert.

“More
snuff,” said Sir Simon. Sir Simon’s man brought a large jar of the best scented
Scotch.

Hubert
once more charged the upper chink of the closet, and blew the snuff into the
interior, as before. Again he charged, and again, emptying the whole contents
of the jar. The tumult of sneezes became really extraordinary to listen
to—there was no cessation. It was like wind, rain, and sea battling in a
hurricane.

“I
believe there are men inside, and that it is no trick at all!” exclaimed Sir
Simon, the truth flashing on him.

“There
are,” said Hubert. “They are come to rob the house; and they are the same who
stole my horse.”

The
sneezes changed to spasmodic groans. One of the thieves, hearing Hubert’s
voice, cried, “Oh! mercy! mercy! let us out of this!”

“Where’s
my horse?” said Hubert.

“Tied
to the tree in the hollow behind Short’s Gibbet. Mercy! Mercy! Let us out, or
we shall die of suffocation!”

All
the Christmas guests now perceived that this was no longer sport, but serious
earnest. Guns and cudgels were procured; all the menservants were called in,
and arranged in position outside the closet. At a signal Hubert withdrew the
bolt, and stood on the defensive. But the three robbers, far from attacking
them, were found crouching in the corner, gasping for breath. They made no
resistance; and, being pinioned, were placed in an outhouse till the morning.

Hubert
now gave the remainder of his story to the assembled company, and was profusely
thanked for the services he had rendered. Sir Simon pressed him to stay over
the night, and accept the use of the best bedroom the house afforded, which had
been occupied by Queen Elizabeth and King Charles successively when on their
visits to this part of the country. But Hubert declined, being anxious to find
his horse Jerry, and to test the truth of the robbers’ statements concerning
him.

Several
of the guests accompanied Hubert to the spot behind the gibbet, alluded to by
the thieves as where Jerry was hidden. When they reached the knoll and looked
over, behold! there the horse stood, uninjured, and quite unconcerned. At sight
of Hubert he neighed joyfully; and nothing could exceed Hubert’s gladness at
finding him. He mounted, wished his friends “Good-night!” and cantered off in
the direction they pointed out, reaching home safely about four o’clock in the
morning.

If anyone ever challenged the throne
of Agatha Christie, it was Margery Allingham. It was not unreasonable to
suppose that Allingham was the author Christie chose when she wanted to curl up
with a good mystery. Both women were masters of the genteel English setting.
Both were tremendously prolific in their prime.

But, after World War II, Allingham
seemed to grow tired of her series character Albert Campion. He had bowed to
much acclaim in the 1929 book
The Crime at Black Dudley,
but had become
peripheral to the action of her post-war stories. When he returned to center
stage, it was in the role of government agent. At the height of her popularity,
she was mentioned with Christie and Dorothy Sayers, but she is less
well-remembered today. Her last book,
Cargo of Eagles,
was completed after her
death by her husband, Philip Youngman Carter, who added to the Campion series
with two entries of his own.

Margery Allingham was particularly
inspired by the combination of crime and Christmas for she left four remarkable
stories, all with Albert Campion: “On Christmas Day in the Morning,” “Murder
Under the Mistletoe,” “The Man With the Sack,” and the following tale, which
has been out of print in this country for over thirty years. Among its delights
are some moments aboard a train speeding away from wartime London. It is
Allingham at her best—and that you shall find is very good indeed.

Mr. Albert Campion, sitting in a
first-class smoking compartment, was just reflecting sadly that an atmosphere
of stultifying decency could make even Christmas something of a stuffed-owl
occasion, when a new hogskin suitcase of distinctive design hit him on the
knees. At the same moment a golf bag bruised the shins of the shy young man
opposite, an armful of assorted magazines burst over the pretty girl in the far
corner, and a blast of icy air swept round the carriage. There was the familiar
rattle and lurch which indicates that the train has started at last, a squawk
from a receding porter, and Lance Feering arrived before him apparently by
rocket.

“Caught it,” said the newcomer with
the air of one confidently expecting congratulations, but as the train bumped
jerkily he teetered back on his heels and collapsed between the two young
people on the opposite seat.

“My dear chap, so we noticed.”
murmured Campion, and he smiled apologetically at the girl, now disentangling
herself from the shellburst of newsprint. It was his own disarming
my-poor-friend-is-afflicted variety of smile that he privately considered
infallible, but on this occasion it let him down.

The girl, who was in the early
twenties and was slim and fair, with eyes like licked brandy-balls, as Lance
Feering inelegantly put it afterward, regarded him with grave interest. She
stacked the magazines into a neat bundle and placed them on the seat opposite
before returning to her own book. Even Mr. Feering, who was in one of his more
exuberant moods, was aware of that chilly protest. He began to apologize.

Campion had known Feering in his
student days, long before he had become one of the foremost designers of stage décors
in Europe, and was used to him, but now even he was impressed. Lance’s
apologies were easy but also abject. He collected his bag, stowed it on a clear
space on the rack above the shy young man’s head, thrust his golf things under
the seat, positively blushed when he claimed his magazines, and regarded the
girl with pathetic humility. She glanced at him when he spoke, nodded coolly
with just enough graciousness not to be gauche, and turned over a page.

Campion was secretly amused. At the
top of his form Lance was reputed to be irresistible. His dark face with the
long mournful nose and bright eyes were unhandsome enough to be interesting,
and the quick gestures of his short painter’s hands made his conversation
picturesque. His singular lack of success on this occasion clearly astonished
him and he sat back in his corner eyeing the young woman with covert mistrust.

Campion resettled himself to the two
hours’ rigid silence which etiquette demands from firstclass travelers who,
although they are more than probably going to be asked to dance a reel together
if not to share a bathroom only a few hours hence, have not yet been
introduced.

There was no way of telling if the
shy young man and the girl with the brandy-ball eyes knew each other, and
whether they too were en route for Underhill. Sir Philip Cookham’s Norfolk
place. Campion was inclined to regard the coming festivities with a certain
amount of lugubrious curiosity. Cookham himself was a magnificent old boy, of
course, “one of the more valuable pieces in the Cabinet,” as someone had once
said of him, but Florence was a different kettle of fish. Born to wealth and
breeding, she had grown blasé towards both of them and now took her delight in
notabilities, a dangerous affectation in Campion’s experience. She was some
sort of remote aunt of his.